


bad karma.

by eoghainy



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-24 14:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16642400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: drabbles taken & updated from original ficlet.





	1. alone.

**Author's Note:**

> drabbles taken & updated from original ficlet.

When he woke, he was alone.

Well, not in that _I_ - _have_ - _no-friends-around-me-and-I-need-justification_ type of alone; he was truly, utterly, and absolutely alone. 

Both of his parents were dead, gone and never to come back. Being an only child had its disadvantages: he had no siblings to rely on, or to go to when shit hit the fan. He was a damn good thief, but it had gotten him _nowhere_.  _Wealth_ had gotten him _nowhere_. He hated it. He hated having money at his fingertips, and being the one that everyone came to when they needed an extra buck in their pocket. 

His wife hated him. She cheated, and cheated, and she dug sharp barbs at him whenever she got the chance. His daughter sought attention from awful television producers to validate herself, and she despised him whenever he tried to save her from either getting her life screwed over, or from making herself an American laughingstock. His son was a lazy, selfish pothead, and he hated Michael for every single decision that he had made. His family was self–entitled, greedy, selfish and harsh; they blamed him for every single goddamned thing that went wrong. Someone knocked a glass off the counter? Michael’s fault. TV won’t work? Michael’s fault. The house gets blown up? _Michael’s fault_.

To top it all off, his only friend was someone whom he had left behind intentionally. Ghosted, really. Michael was running with the wrong crowds all over again, doing stunts that _did_ make his blood sing, but ultimately pushed his family farther and farther away.

Here he sat, with his splitting head in his hands, praying that Jimmy drugging him was just a really bad dream. Wasn’t him attacking Fabien a dream, too?

Running his hands through his sweaty hair, the underwear–clad thief had to realize that he had reached his breaking point. He lost his family, his car, _most_ of his damn bank account, and he was coming down from the worst high he had ever experienced in his damn life. 

Life was so wonderful for Michael _fucking_ Townley, wasn’t it?


	2. clown perverts and aliens.

“Where did you get that scar?” 

Michael’s voice is quiet, but it catches Trevor’s attention. He’s padding around, shirtless, in their shared motel room, feet bare against the cheesy threadbare carpet, searching for at least _one_ shirt that didn’t have any holes in it. Personally, Trevor didn’t even know if he owned a shirt that was in great condition. 

“Clown pervert molested me.” Trevor twists around to look at the scar Michael was asking about. It was a deep one, still aggravated even though it was well over a decade old. Though it didn’t bother him, it was an attention grabber for anyone who hadn’t known it was there prior. 

As if amused, Michael laughed. “Yeah, sure, T.” 

Blinking at his friend in barely concealed hurt, Trevor frowns. He supposes he can’t blame Michael for his instant dismissal of the explanation. He’s got a lot of scars, most of them self-inflicted because of his own recklessness, and he’s told lies about every single one of them. It was his own fault for Michael’s immediate move to ignore him.

Still, perhaps looking for a bit more sympathy from his friend, Trevor pushes it. “It’s true!” He snaps indignantly. “A clown pervert _did_ molest me. Scariest hour of my life.” 

Michael decides to play into it. His eyes are gleaming as he takes a sip from his beer. “And why did this clown pervert pick you, unruly Trevor, out of the rest of the weird redneck bunch?” His hands are folded across his stomach.

“Maybe because I was the easiest little weird unruly redneck out of the bunch.” Trevor answers hotly. “The one this asshole clown pervert could pick on and get away with it.” He stretches before sliding on a ratty shirt he found. “Believe me now, Mikey?”

He turns to look at his friend, and Michael’s eyebrows are furrowed, almost as if he were trying to decide if Trevor was being serious or not. Finally, he decides, and takes another sip. “Oh, yeah, I believe you, T. Now shut up so I can watch the program.” 

Grumbling, Trevor flopped down on his bed, briefly letting his gaze wander to the football game. When it switches to commercial, he looks back at Michael, frowning. “Do you always not believe me when I tell you the stories behind my scars?” He’s curious now.

“T, you and I both know that you lie to avoid the truth, and never confide in another living being for any reason other than to manipulate them,” Michael starts. _You do the same, fatass,_ Trevor thinks darkly, but doesn’t give a voice to it. “Most of the time I just figure that you’re trying to wriggle your way out of an uncomfortable explanation. How was I supposed to know you were _actually_ abused by some weird clown pervert in your youth?”

Trevor says nothing. “’Kay, then,” he announces loudly, and he pretends like he doesn’t hear Michael’s quiet groan. “Sleep well and enjoy your wet dreams about your _aliens_ , Michael.” 

Michael ignores him and goes back to his football game, and Trevor pretends like Michael’s accurate characterization of him doesn’t hurt, not even a little bit.


End file.
